When I go out to brunch, I’m a divorcée.
When I eat my second post-breakfast snack, I’m divorced.
The divorcée in me buys the houseplants.
The divorced woman in me kills them all.
When I consider adopting a Persian cat, I’m a divorcée.
When I clean my child’s lizard terrarium, I’m divorced.
If I’m crying at a foreign film, I’m a divorcée.
If I’m crying on my therapist’s floor, I’m divorced.
Champagne, bourbon, and herbal teas. These are my divorcée beverages.
When I steal all the La Croix out of the fridge at work to save $4.99, that’s divorced behavior.
When I’m wearing a lacy, matching underwear set, I’m a divorcée.
When I’m wearing frayed underwear of unknown provenance that was left in the laundromat dryer seven years ago, I’m divorced.
I graciously accept a monthly parenting honorarium when I identify as a divorcée.
I get child support when I’m feeling divorced.



